Bunny Man Described

Hello again. Ya'll. Just tried to revise my description of Bunny Man at lulu. Did not work. Here is the revision:
Kiedis and Velvet Jane go on a road trip. This is like "Wild at Heart" but without David Lynch's (or Barry Gifford's) genius and Laura Dern and Nicolas Cage. In no other book that I know of will you find gigantic tangelos falling from the sky and a trip to a ghost town tourist attraction in the New Mexico desert called Holy City. And Time Melt Valley, Arizona, my gawd...Robert Plant circa 1973 alone at a carnival! And Henry Miller tending bar back at the hotel. What more could you want in a literary excursion? Tawdry sex? Bunny Man has that as well!


I wrote Bunny Man for Eraserhead Press. It was rejected. So I do what I do when I believe in something so much it makes me squirm and giggle and mumble God in Heaven Nothin' in the King James Bible Can Compete With THAT. I published it myself at lulu.com. I am a lulu whore. I am a Facebook whore. I am an eBay whore. I am a blogspot whore. But I am NOT a MySpace whore. Even a rural Texas baby mama has to have SOME standards. Bye.

SNIFF

Can you smell the desperation? Throw me a bone. Throw me a skeleton. I need bids on my eBay crap. I need to sell every single one of my lovelierest books at my eBuLLieNCe PReSs storefront. Please keep in mind that I do not receive royalties for Instant Pussy or for any books I published for other people with the exception of Fucking on Cheap Tequila in Greensboro and Shakespeare's Shotgun because Jeff Losius is cool as shit. He told me I could claim royalties on the books I published for him even though I couldn't afford to send him contributor copies. If I ever meet the man in person (I think he's scared of me, most people are) I will give him a sloppy soul kiss and buy him whatever he wants to drink and I will kick his ass at darts and/or Skee-Ball. So yeah, buy those two books, too. I published 'em because I am wildly in love with the man's demented mind.

When I was posting blogs at xanga years ago I was a fan of this astrologer chick named Elsa. She "accepted donations." I, too, accept donations. I might have said it before but it bears repeating: AIN'T TOO PROUD TO BEG. Send donations via PayPal to michaeldlites@yahoo.com. Michael Lites is the man I am married to. He needs some new pants. His pants are falling down (he has a belt, luckily) because he has lost so much weight on the Never Enough Food Stamps up in This Bitch diet. He eats one frozen dinner (microwaves it first) a day so that his family won't starve. Our son has all the food he needs. Yesterday I ate some hot Cheetos and carrots and leftover jungle birthday cake. Yum! Are there tears in your eyes? Are your heart strings all tangled up in blue? I am just another rural Texas baby mama. I don't feel that the world owes me anything. I'm a reeking squeaking mess. But yeah...donations accepted and appreciated. Grazi.

Muscat Luv

NO MOSCATO! NO MERLOT! My lengthening love affair with cheap wine is lackluster, to spray the least. Secret: my favorite recurring sexual fantasy involves me and a man who actually paid me to dance nekkid for him at Fantasy Ranch in Arlington, Texas in early 1996. He was gorgeous and superior in his black Armani. He told me about his boring wife and their life in Napa Valley. I fantasize that I was his mistress for a couple of hours. "Sideways" is one of the few flicks I can watch more than ten times and not hate it. Even though all I know about wine is that I love me some cheap Southeastern Australia riesling and I abhor the fruity shit I tried to drink last night while watching "Dancing With The Stars." Tried to text in a vote for Derek. Didn't work. He looked so much like David Bowie I was almost in love, even though all I know of David Bowie is that whenever "Let's Dance" comes on the radio I get all eBuLLieNT and ga ga goo goo gee.

Lady J

You can take Lady Gaga out on a White Castle date but you will never fully plumb the cracked foundation that is Lady J's mind.

Roxi Xmas is lurking in the cerulean shadows compiling a cookbook entitled Eat Me.

After a wildly unsuccessful attempt at masturbation I sank into iffy dreams. Infinity, it seems, is an electric spiral which would fascinate an embryo but if you've been around the ice cream block as many times as I have, such stuff is nightmarish/none too appealing. I don't wanna die, after all. If death isn't something akin to Robert Plant's walk-in closet, I'd prefer immortality.

Speakin' of which, I want the Robert Crumb illustrated Bukowski books (there are two, according to eBay) so bad I can taste 'em like three day old jungle birthday cake. For a long time I was disgusted with Bukowski. I mean, the motherfucker is more ubiquitous than Paris Hilton. I tried to sell my three paperback copies of his selected letters on eBay last week but the ISBNs weren't found in the database so I took 'em home. Started actually readin' 'em and found a spooky kinship with the man. Yeah, he was born in Germany in 1920 and he had a healthy penis and I was born in Texas in 1973 and I have a malfunctioning vagina but we could be TWINS, I tell ya. Spooooooky stuff. I told my husband the other day that I miss 2006. Back in 2006 my box was stuffed almost daily with adoring letters and art and poems. Since the death of Instant Pussy the box has dried up. This saddens me but not enough to resurrect a belching dinosaur.

This is my letter to the universe. Please don't let death be like an electric spiral, like the same joyless Disneyland ride over & over & over and no way of puking & sure as fuckity FUCK no way of getting off.

p.s. apple scented suds!!!

Fish Ain't Bitin'

Mama San! Whadda ya want on your burger?
Everything but the glop. I hate glop. You know this.

My mouth is sloppy but not with burger glop. No mayo mustard ketchup Thousand Island dressing to this pucker, baby.

I give away my art and chapbooks and read the selected letters of Charles Bukowski and wish I had a penis to beat against the walls. Wish I had a big nose so I could snort some cherry Kool-Aid. I would look like a misanthropic anteater. I am Ozzy Osbourne in disguise. Never can find the remote control. "Used lion?!!!" again and again, not for my benefit but for the benefit of Mr. Kite. I am road tripping to Acuna, Mexico to score some birth control and Cymbalta. I am blasting the most kick ass mix tape ever created. "Melancholy Melodies Interspersed With Snazzy Pop Bravado." Billie Holiday. The Pet Shop Boys. Gary Stewart. Hank Williams the First. Lfucking7. Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Led Zeppelin. Too Short. New York Dolls. Me at age five singin' "I'm just a bumblebee flyin' around here stingin' people and I'M ABOUT TO STING YOU!!@#$#" I could really go for a skillet of buttery garlicky mushrooms and a bottle of riesling right about now. Why aren't more people wildly impressed? I am one miracle. There are millions of miracles gallivantin' around. But do they blogspot? Do they publish brilliant books? Do they take brilliant photographs? Do they look hotter than Rod Stewart circa 1976 in cheetah print spandex??? I am just blowin' my own kazoo. Nothin' new. Nothin' goin' on but CoinStar. Bye.

Hang My Shoes On Your WaLL

...my shoes...(in the snoW)

Conjectrixicis

My newest book of wack ass photographs is extremely expensive. You should buy it. Yes. You should.